


Commune Naufragium

by honeybun, Sabou



Series: Commune Naufragium [4]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Clinging, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Needy Dee, Requited Love, Soft kissing, Tenderness, The Chu, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23497030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabou
Summary: The final chapter of our small ficlets - sharing a name with our overall series, which here means ‘a shipwreck that is common to all is a consolation.’
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Series: Commune Naufragium [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670629
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	Commune Naufragium

Alone in the quiet dark, Diarmuid was thinking. It felt like it was all he could do and had done for weeks now, thoughts and emotions swirled and tangled together. His head felt like it held a thicket of thistles, thorns latching on every which way, each thought tugged back to another, every reflection leading back to David. 

They had not spoken about what had happened, not that David could, but it wasn’t replicated again, much to Diarmuid’s displeasure - for he tentatively recognised what it was he felt in his chest now. The longing he held for his friend. How it had taken him so long he did not know, all seasons of the year he’d watched him, admired him - not to replicate in himself, but admired him as the man he was, so different from the others. 

Diarmuid had tried to be careful, to go about his day as he had before, but he found himself trailing back towards the side of the monastery that David might be in, for the months he had dedicated to his study, he knew very well where he might be, and was most often right. He had tried to push thoughts from his mind and think of other things, to be of use, and all the things his brothers wished for him. 

Yet, it appeared that wasn’t in the stars for him. 

It appeared to Diarmuid that often his feet took him places on their own, and then his hands opened doors he hadn’t willed them to, they brought him once again to David’s small quarters and pulled out the precious box hid there. He would rub his thumb over the bear’s nose, as one might do for luck, and when David found him crouching there, he was not surprised. Diarmuid felt for the first time in his life he had a true purpose and meaning, something he could feel and latch onto which he hadn’t understood before. He had been pious and careful and he had done as he should, but it didn’t have this same feeling, this feeling of- of devotion, that he’d heard his brothers speak of so freely. He could follow the rules but he couldn’t give away his very being. He thought he could for David. 

If David had been a saint he would have prayed to him daily, thinks Diarmuid. Hands holding up his chin and staring into thin air as he dreams. If David had tales written about him, stained glass made, poems and hymns, then Diarmuid would have known them all. Sometimes he lets himself imagine the fine figure David would make as a stone bust perhaps, his chest broad and hands strong. 

These thoughts could get him into such trouble. Diarmuid bites into his lip whenever he realises, looks around and adjusts his robe as if anyone nearby might be able to see what blasphemous things he contemplated in the light of day. 

He was not sure how David felt, not at all. While his friend was mute, he could certainly communicate, and Diarmuid had no problem doing so with him, however recently - since the incident - his eyes had been guarded, his touch less generous. When Diarmuid came to visit him, he would be welcoming, but he would not be warm. There was something Diarmuid could not describe that had changed about his demeanour. He might have been heartbroken, he could have felt foolish and worried for his position in the monastery, but so much led him to feel the opposite.

For example, whenever he entered his friend’s quarters unannounced, even without David there, there was always some small thing on the tabletop that Diarmuid knew was for him. Once, a sprig of lavender that Diarmuid kept through him all day, hid under his pillow and brushed against his nose each time he sought some kind of comfort, another day the skeleton of a leaf, only the thicker veins remaining, dry and whitened. 

Most of all, David would appear so indifferent at first, even whittling away and turning to take care of his own interests when Diarmuid came to him, which he hadn’t before, but he always seemed to war with himself when it came to Diarmuid leaving. Diarmuid would hide a smile as his friend got up from his chair and walked him to the door, opened it and barely concealed a frown. 

‘It’s alright, I don’t want to bother you when you’re busy-’ David huffed and sharply dipped his head to one shoulder so his neck cracked a little. Diarmuid thought he looked like a fussing horse when he did that. David put away his knife into a pocket and crossed his arms.

Diarmuid, not wanting to tease, bit his lip and then commented, ‘Unless you’d like a walk? You must have things to check around the fields, no? I could always accompany you?’ 

David was already getting his thick coat. 

Diarmuid noticed it was easier when done like that, making it seem like David was doing him a service, or that it was merely a coincidence they must be together. As they walk through the fields David doesn’t move his eyes from the path in front of them, his shoulders droop a little from their tense line, and his face softens. Diarmuid notices that David does not check any of the flock, or the gates as they walk, he does not comment on this. 

Things carry on like this for a little while. Winter comes and the two of them settle into this to and fro, somehow still spending more and more time together. 

Every week or so, another wooden animal joins the small bear. There is a rabbit, a lamb, and a dove. Diarmuid treasures them all, and doesn’t let his heart leap when he thinks of what had happened that first time, wondering if it might happen again. Each time passes and David does not press his lips once again to Diarmuid’s cheek. 

At night he almost wonders if it was a dream perhaps. That out of longing and too much imagination, he had conjured it up, seemingly so vivid and real but just a phantom. However then he thinks of how David’s eyes still follow him, how his hand still brushes his occasionally, not just the back of his hand as if by accident, but his thumb extending to gently caress him. Diarmuid walks slower, and he does not pull away. Whenever David presents him with another wooden animal, he lets Diarmuid cradle it within his hands, but only with his own much larger palms cupping his. 

So, he does not lose hope. And for once in his life he feels certain of something, and the hope and calm he feels grows and nests by his heart to nurture it there.

It is some weeks after, and the monastery is settled deep into Winter. A storm had been brewing since the previous afternoon, and that night the wind had howled by the clouds hadn’t broken over them yet. The lay brothers had made sure to herd the flock from the hills into their stables, and any other jobs like that had been done with haste rather than at the usual pace of the monastery. Diarmuid felt it brewing and building in his chest as the clouds darkened and the air became thicker, snow swirled around and every draft in between stones and under doors was quickly found out. He could feel more than the storm approaching, as if on the heels of it something bigger was behind, ready to take him and sweep him away. 

Brother Ciaran had said something to him once, eyes kind as always, but looking at him with a kind of curiosity, as he had questioned whether Diarmuid knew of the monks who lived together in the cottage just ten miles from the monastery. Diarmuid of course did not, for most of the knowledge he possessed came from books in Latin and pertained to saints and other such things. He was too shy to ask for gossip. He had shaken his head, and Ciaran hummed, ‘They see to a large flock, and keep much to themselves. Some aren’t suited to monastery life, really, and there’s no shame in that,’ Diarmuid had nodded his head and hadn’t quite grasped what he was being told, ‘As committed to The Lord as they are, they’re just as committed to one another. It doesn’t drive them from the path of God, so there’s no harm in that, is there, Diarmuid?’ 

Diarmuid’s eyebrows had come together in confusion, sure he was missing something, biting his lip and chewing the inside of his cheek, he gave a careful answer, always what he does when unsure of what’s being asked of him, ‘Yes, I suppose two shepherds are better than one, aren’t they?’

Brother Ciaran had smiled at him quite wide, again for a reason that evaded Diarmuid, and uncharacteristically had laughed, a soft but warm thing, ‘Yes, yes I suppose you’re right.’

It was only recently that Diarmuid had begun to grasp what he had meant, and he flushed whenever it came to mind, but he often let himself think of such a cottage, just the two of them - David of course, and him. Tucked away from the world. 

The storm felt like it couldn’t wait another moment as Diarmuid finally closed the thick door to the kitchen gardens and quickly stepped his way to the dormitory, rain began lashing against the stone of the building, and in the distance thunder rolled over the ocean, coming inland. 

He had always enjoyed being inside when there was a storm, something safe, cosseted, like being in a cocoon. There was something that wouldn’t sit right with him, no matter how warm he was, and how cosy, he could not settle to sleep. He would get to the edge of slumber, and then he would see David’s small quarters, lashed by rain and now by the thunder which struck all around them, apart from the monastery, not warm, not in the safe cocoon as Diarmuid was, and what would be the point if David wasn’t safe? His thought process simplified through fatigue, he gathered up his blanket around him and padded down the hall without shoes, making his way quietly towards David. 

He opened the door and saw only a sheet of water, flashes of light which blinded him, growing closer and closer, awake now, all he could think of was David. 

Despite the thunder, despite the rain, Diarmuid rushed across the path towards the stable. He pushed at the thick wooden door and the ring handle creaked as he turned it. 

Inside is David, eyes surprised, but Diarmuid almost feels like he was expected. David looks above him as another clap of thunder rings through the valley, heralding Diarmuid’s arrival. Diarmuid hasn’t ever felt like a particularly strong person, certainly not a leader, or fearless, but something about David’s recent hesitation, how his friend was holding something back from him made him bold. He has never been bold. It’s as if that place in his chest holds all manner of things now it is full of David, that he could pull anything from it should David need. 

Diarmuid shuts the door and without thought or need for it, goes to David, his slightly wet blanket is heavier now, but Diarmuid does not hesitate, he comes to where David sits by the fire, and drapes it around them both. For lack of another chair, and also because Diarmuid wants to, he perches himself on one of David’s thighs. He tugs and pulls his blanket until it is over both of their heads, and there is another layer between them and the outside world, the glow of the fire pervades through it, and he can see David’s features through the soft, dim light. 

David looks at him now within the warm cosseted darkness of Diarmuid’s blanket, not as he might usually, with reserve and caution, but with a helpless gratitude. As if the heavens had directly dispatched Diarmuid here. 

‘It got a bit wet outside, sorry,’ Diarmuid whispers, embarrassment filtering through now he realises the situation he’s got himself into. David’s eyes turn warm as he takes in the flimsy blanket, Diarmuid’s bare feet, how his arms stretch over their heads to shelter them both. 

David still appears a little stunned, until a look of resolve falls across his face. Diarmuid feels David’s warm hands cup his face, and the air shifts between them. As David sighs, as if losing a battle he was indifferent to anyway, outside the storm blows on as if welcoming a particular cataclysmic event. David closes his eyes, Diarmuid lets his hands drift up to rest against David’s chest, and as David kisses him, he thinks of what fateful events brought them here. 

The fire crackles and spits as rain runs down the chimney, but Diarmuid can’t pay attention to anything but how David’s lips move against his, or how his thumb doesn’t stop on it’s path up and down his cheek. 

There are stories within those hands, perhaps that Diarmuid may never know, but still he pulls back to take David’s fingers from his cheek and kisses along his thumb and to the deep rivets of his palm. Diarmuid doesn’t need to be told, he doesn’t need David to say a word because he knows the important things. He knows that the impatient tug at his hands and a grunt from David means ‘ _Come here_ ’ and that when David kisses him again, and takes the time to run his nose against his, when he breathes out as if he has found salvation, that this is a love confession. When David’s eyes turn flinty in the darkness, and his large hand grips Diarmuid’s thigh, this means ‘ _Stay_ ’. 

David’s bed is soft and warmed by the fire, Diarmuid’s blanket slips to the floor as David’s replaces it, wrapping around them both. Covered by thick wool and sheepskins, Diarmuid’s slender legs twine around David, their chests press together and Diarmuid no longer needs to imagine what it might be like to be held tightly, with David’s heavy arms around him. When they both gently come to a stop Diarmuid’s lips are ruby red and shining and he can see how David’s looks at them in the fading light of the fire. David’s thumb rubs at Diarmuid’s chin, and the last thing he is conscious of is being carefully rearranged so his nose pokes at the warm brown skin of David’s neck, where it smells of earth, and the fire, and of something entirely David’s.

David had come to him in a boat, he knows not why, but he knows it was for him. He had wondered for some time what it was that had brought him, shipwrecked on a foreign land, where David could neither speak or understand them properly for many months. From the scars on his back, and his form which many in the monastery would whisper must have been forged from war or hard work, he knew he had not lived an easy life. 

Diarmuid contemplates what brought him to the beach that day, running from something himself, the walls of the monastery always listening and closing in on him. He had walked to the shore as if he was there to greet him, and had found David, struggling for breath on the sand, hair soaked with sea water and eyes wild and red. From that day, something had settled within him, and whenever he saw David he felt like he was _home_. 

_Commune Naufragium, a shipwreck that is common to all, is a consolation._ When morning light breaks through the small windows of David’s room, he contemplates this phrase while gently stroking the hard plane of David’s collarbone, of how David saved him, and how, perhaps he had helped to save David. He thinks it fits them well.

**Author's Note:**

> i really hope you've enjoyed these stories, especially this one because after working on it for a good while, i now cannot tell whether it's good or bad lmao.
> 
> hope you're all staying safe and keeping sane. 
> 
> thank you to my lob for always sticking with me and getting me through my writing-based fussing <3 lob u


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